Arrival
Travelling in a taxi through London. Like watching TV with the sound turned down.
Couples fighting outside the window. Trains passing. I arrive at a flat in North London — shifted here one month ago. The mundane life goes on.
Projector lights. London sprints.
One day I find a journal in an unbothered corner of the drawer.
Written by a guy named Mikel.
Sounds so familiar.
He writes —
Noise cancelling headphones.
Analog watch — stopped at nine.
Bonusan Magnesium forte plus.
Branded water, half finished.
A Dolby CD, no label.
Oil pastels, barely used.
Daguerreotype.
Collecting is the only truth.
People forget. But objects hold the memory. The smell. The origin. The pathway.
Coffee mug.
Tom Ford pocket squares.
Nike ball.
Electric toothbrush.
Broken compass — still points somewhere.
A hotel room key, city unknown.
Half-written letter, no addressee.
A cinema ticket stub — last row, seat G7.
I collect memories and objects.
It will never leave this place.
He writes further —
Emirates.
Holloway Road.
Ken Friar Bridge.
The Drayton Park.
Sports is the only thing that bonds us.
Colour seems bright at Emirates.
I read this. I live near the Emirates.
Something in those lines haunts me for two weeks.
Then one day, at the back of my cupboard — binoculars. Gifted by some old, blurry friend. The origin uncertain, the object real.
It clicks.
Objects as memories.
I say — “He’s right.”
I take the binoculars to the window.
Point them at the Emirates.
Colour breathes bright there. Even from here. Even through glass.
I set the binoculars down. Turn back to the journal.
Then one evening I go for a walk near the Emirates.
Days before any match — but the bonding is already felt. Something in the streets around it, in the people moving through Holloway Road, in the permanence of the stadium against the grey London sky.
Colours seem real.
Ken Friar Bridge.
Skateboards laughing.
A few days later, in a corner of the cupboard — a watch. Analog. Stopped at nine.
